Harry Potter and the Return of the Animagus
by Carleigh Rose
Summary: It's the trio's 6th year, and Lord Voldemort's back with a new plan: He's going to capture Harry Potter, from INSIDE Hogwarts. Follows OotP. Rated PG-13 just in case.
1. The Little Stone Shack

_Okay, this is actually more like the prologue to my story, but here we go... and this is my first ever posted fan fiction, please review and give me some pointers... but give me a chance, I write a lot, just not posted. Anyway, this is set after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, so I guess it's my version of Book 6, but not really...nothing ever surpasses the real stuff by J.K. herself. I'm not quite that intelligent in creating stories, sorry, lol. Anyway, here it is! Hope you enjoy!_

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**1. The Little Stone Shack**

It was a stormy summer, perhaps one of the wettest in European history. The rain came down in torrents... it never seemed to end, and to make matters worse, it was usually accompanied by cracks of jagged lightning and enormous claps of thunder. It was no surprise to see the yard in front of the shack abandoned, no one knew to whom it belonged anyway. It just existed, presumably empty, on a small lot in a residential area a few dozen miles outside of London. The town's municipal workers normally at least took the time to mow the lawn in front of the empty structure, but even that remained overgrown and messy at the time, as the weeds grew out, dusting the sidewalk in green, and the grass rose to calf-level. A small trail of stepping stones, barely visible lying underneath the thick foliage, was there to save any potential visitors from being swallowed up by the oversaturated, almost swamp-like mud that was the front yard, though the only people that had ever been seen on the walkway were a few kids looking for a cure for their boredom, but if anyone watched, they would have noticed that all who'd attempted to approach had quickly realized that they were late for dinner.

Beyond its heavy door, the shack appeared as though it was nothing but a cold, empty, stone hallway with no windows, nothing to provide light. However, to those who understood the building's true nature, knew enough that with a quick, whispered incantation and a tap of the floor with the wand, the floor would fold itself down, unveiling a spiraling stone staircase that led into another dark stone room, furnished with just a desk and two large, swiveling armchairs. A single dark-cloaked figure sat behind the dark, rosewood desk inside, facing towards the grey stone wall, rather than looking out in front of the structure towards the area where the stairs unfolded. He rested his elbows on the maroon cushioned arm rests on either side, his fingertips resting upon each other just at his lips. He restlessly began tapping one foot as he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for in between the booming thunder... the sound of the floor moving, quickly followed by the click-clack of high-heels descending into the room.

"You're late," he hissed, not even bothering to turn around, presumably because he felt himself above his visitor; there was no need for formalities with someone who had so little power. If she knew what was good for her, she would not make him face her.

"Yes, Master, I know. My deepest apologies, sir," came the timid reply from the young woman, who made her way across to the vacant chair at the center of the room. She placed herself carefully into the chair, smoothing out her purple robes. She gazed expectantly at the back of the chair, which reached almost to the tip of the man's hooded head. Her hands were shaking, her nerves were getting the best of her.

"Have they told you why I want you?" the wizard continued, in a deep low voice. He could sense the nervousness. Even better, he thought to himself. They were always easier to persuade this way. Not like she had the choice in the matter anyway, his informants had recommended her for this task, and he wouldn't have taken anything else. She'd do it, or there'd be awful consequences.

"No, my Lord." She bit her lip. That had been a half lie. She'd been partially informed by the wizard who'd brought her, the one who'd told her that this man had insisted on her presence in this building at a precise time, and that she'd be severely punished if she refused.

The man let out an evil cackle. "This task is of the utmost importance. There will be rewards beyond that which you can imagine if you manage to successfully complete it."

"Like what, Master?" She spewed the question out before she could stop herself. Obviously, she was not to be told at the moment, and this was not the time to push her luck with dumb questions.

The figure sneered, lowering his hands to grip the armrests. "Power, you silly girl."

"Of course, my Lord." The young woman did not know, of course, what else was in store for her. She was a bit too young to understand his mind games, his empty promises, his manipulation. She'd learn, of course, but probably not soon enough. But she was precisely what he needed, someone innocent, oblivious, willing to do anything to get herself noticed.

"You will be visiting Hogwarts and retrieving Harry Potter," the man announced bluntly, cackling evilly at the thought. The young woman stared at him, clueless, and he proceeded to describe his ingenious plan. This one was flawless; it was destined to provide him with exactly what he needed. The boy would at last be put into his possession.

The woman hesitated. The wizard sounded convinced that this plan was going to easily work, that she'd be in and out within a relative short time period, but she wasn't so sure, and she definitely did not want to face the consequences if she messed everything up. "I...I...well..." she stammered nervously, staring at the chair.

"You will be going," the wizard informed her firmly. She nearly flew out of her chair as he turned to face her, and she took in the image of his ghastly white, leathery skin, inhaling sharply as his red eyes met hers.

The woman nodded, swallowing hard.

The room was then enveloped in maniacal laughter.

A long way from the shack, sitting alone on a swing in Little Whinging, a teenage boy with messy black hair doubled over in pain, slapping his hand over the searing pain in the lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

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_Yep, I left you hanging. Bwaha. Anyway, read and review while you wait for the actual story to start, all right? Please and thank you._


	2. Bromley Hospital

_Here you go, this fast enough for you, squirrels? And to LonelySilverWolf: Thanks for the review, and I'm a grammar freak, so please, if you see anything, let me know. And my apologies for making it sound like the 4th book, I didn't even realize it until you pointed that out. You might notice that I altered it ever so slightly so that he'd be out on the swings instead of asleep (provided the site updated it, it doesn't seem to be doing it quickly today)…it had to affect him somehow, but this is actually better. Thanks. _

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2. Bromley Hospital**

A gentle evening rain sprinkled down upon the little park in Little Whinging as Harry Potter swung lightly back in forth in the recently refurbished playground. Apparently the townspeople had noticed that the entire thing had been vandalized, the Dursleys had declared it a disgrace to the community, obviously still too ignorant to realize that this was exactly what their beloved son was accomplishing when he claimed to be out for tea. It was only a matter of time before the park would be back into a similar state; several foul messages had already been painted onto the side of the wooden fence that enclosed the area, and one of the light bulbs from the street lamps had been smashed... Harry still had yet to figure out how Dudley and his gang had pulled that one off...

The burning sensation in his forehead took his gaze off the broken light post as he doubled over, tipping precariously off of the edge of the swing, as if he dared it to throw him onto the muddy ground beneath him. Resting his elbows on his oversized, bleach-stained, hand-me-down jeans, he placed his forehead carefully into his palms, wincing in the pain, willing it to end. Several deep breaths later, after what felt to be fifteen minutes, for all he knew, he felt the pain begin to subside to a mere tingle, and he lifted his head up just enough to gaze at his worn sneakers, that had once been white, but now were caked with dirt and mud from his numerous strolls through the pouring rain.

_Voldemort's ecstatic about something..._Harry thought to himself, faintly hearing an echo of the evil laughter in the back of his mind. He'd experienced the feeling before, but never quite like this. Something about this instance told him that this was no ordinary moment of happiness. Either Voldemort had successfully completed a kill, or else he had been successful in creating some type of new plan. Either way, this couldn't be good. Weighing the options for a bit, the boy decided that this time, he'd better mention the pain to someone. A feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that it needed to be investigated.

Ignoring the painful tingle that lingered in his head, Harry pulled himself up off of the swing, his sneakers making loud squelching noises in the small puddle of mud that had collected beneath the swing set. Stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, he began walking back towards his aunt and uncle's house, knowing exactly who he'd write to.

Just as soon as he'd taken a half dozen steps away from his swing, he felt another familiar sensation: a pang of loss, loneliness, emptiness as he realized... he couldn't write to Sirius anymore. Sirius was gone; he'd never send another letter to his godfather again, at least, not one that would ever receive a response. Harry paused a moment, staring up at the grey sky, feeling raindrops splatter on his forehead and onto his glasses, blurring his vision. Under any other circumstances, this would have been a pretty decent summer. After the warning from an assembly of Order members, the Dursleys reluctantly had been letting Harry get away with more. They'd finally started letting him watch TV, and he was allowed dessert once in a while, and once, when Aunt Petunia had been in a particularly good mood, she'd returned from shopping with a new pair of sneakers, just for Harry. Granted, she'd only done it because it had been a buy-one, get-one free sale, but it was still quite the stride for a woman who had been reluctant to allow Harry to even wear her son's shoes just a few years prior. But all this seemed meaningless this year, it did nothing to prevent the emptiness that he'd felt since the death of Sirius, for which Harry continually blamed himself. If only he hadn't gone to the Ministry that night, his godfather would have still been there. If only.

As this thought crossed his mind, Harry reconsidered his initial reaction to head back so that he could write to inform the Order of the pain in his scar, of the diabolical cackling that he'd heard faintly in the back of his mind. What if it was just a hoax again? Maybe Lord Voldemort was trying once again to lure him, or perhaps an Order member to their deaths. It'd happened once, and that had been one too many times for Harry. The wizard made to turn around, to return to his seat on the swing, but decided against it as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. As the rain and wind picked up with the developing thunderstorm, he made his way back to his home on Privet Drive, staring down at the cracks in the cement sidewalks to keep the droplets from obstructing his vision.

Harry reached the square little house with a black number 4 nailed to the door on Privet Drive, and pushed the front door open, only to be welcomed by the shouts and laughter of his cousin Dudley and about six or seven of his friends. He let out a groan... he'd forgotten. It was Dudley's sixteenth birthday that day, and Aunt Petunia had taken it upon herself to invite nearly all of her son's gang of troublemaking friends to stay the night in the Dursley home.

Bending over to remove his mud-caked shoes, Harry made for the stairs, thankful that none of the party-goers had seen him sneak back into the house. He crept up the steps, careful to avoid the spots that he'd learned made creaks when stepped on, and taking a quick peek into his aunt and uncle's bedroom to find it empty, he entered Dudley's bedroom and flicked on the television, sitting cross-legged on the blue carpet before it. If Voldemort had done anything involving Muggles, or maybe even wizards in a Muggle area, it was bound to appear somewhere on the television.

"Good evening." A pretty blonde woman who looked as though she was straight out of a modeling school greeted viewers with her cheery voice and perfect smile. Harry rolled his eyes as she continued to inform him of a flood in a nearby town... the same flood he'd been hearing about for days now, and anyone with half a brain could guess that if it kept raining, the flood wasn't going to just disappear. She rambled on about that for a bit, then moved on to a small car accident, and then...

"Twelve British citizens are dead after a tragic accident on Liverpool Street in London, just outside the underground station. Two survived this horrible disaster, and were life-flighted to Bromley where they remain in critical condition. Police are still investigating into this tragedy, as there is still no information about why this occurred."

Harry inhaled sharply. This was it, an unexplained accident, twelve dead, two injured. Voldemort had started striking Muggles, and nearby, in London, as well. He flicked to another channel, which was also mid-news broadcast, and ironically, on the story of the accident.

"...Twelve died, and the survivors, Dr. Evelyn Granger and her teenage daughter were rushed by helicopter to Bromley Hospital to receive treatment. Both remain in critical condition."

Harry nearly vomited all over Dudley's bedroom. Had he just heard mention of a Dr. Granger? And her daughter? This was worse than he thought, how many Dr. Grangers could there be in Great Britain that would be in London with their teenage daughter?

Pulling himself up off the floor, Harry flicked the television off with just one thought on his mind: Hermione. He rushed into the next bedroom, his own, and grabbed a piece of parchment, scrawling simply "I've gone to see her." across it, assuming they'd have heard about Hermione by now, especially if his instinct was right, that it had been Voldemort.

"Take this to the Weasleys," Harry whispered to Hedwig, opening her cage and tying the small paper to her leg. The snowy owl let out a soft hoot in response, and took off for Grimmauld Place, where the Weasleys would surely be living inside of Sirius's old house, which was doubling as the headquarters for the Order. He knew they'd be angry that he'd left without any type of bodyguard, but his own life was last on his mind right now. After all the times she'd been there for him, Harry had to rush off to be with Hermione, especially if she was in critical condition... he had a feeling that that roughly meant "hanging onto life by a thread". Harry grabbed a handful of mismatched coins off of his nightstand and rushed out the bedroom door.

Not bothering to say anything to the Dursleys, since they wouldn't care anyway and they were busy enough handing out giant scoops of ice cream to Dudley and his gang, Harry tip-toed down the stairs, slipped out the front door and walked through the pouring rain to the edge of the sidewalk, where he stuck out his right hand, and was thankful to see a giant purple triple- decker bus pull around the corner at an alarming pace.

"Where to?" asked the pimple-faced conductor. Harry'd met him several times on various occasions, and was waiting for him to alert half the world to the fact that he was the "World Famous 'Arry Potter".

"Bromley Hospital, please," Harry said nervously, shoving a handful of coins into the man's hand, ignoring the amount, stepping up onto the bus and making his way down the aisle to one of the beds in the back, passing by several elderly witches with large shopping bags on the way.

"Choo wanna go there for?" Stan called back as the doors closed with a BANG. The bus took off, tossing the bed that Harry was perched on backwards, slamming into the wall, followed by the back of Harry's head, which made contact with the wall with a loud CRACK.

"Long story," Harry mumbled. He really didn't want to talk about it... Stan was a annoying and nosy, and Harry wasn't in the mood, and the growing lump on the back of his head from hitting the wall wasn't exactly making things any better. He kicked off his muddy sneakers and kicked back into a laying position on the bed. Staring up at the bus's ceiling, Harry braced himself on the bed and tried to clear his mind for the remainder of the ride, listening to the chatter of the elderly witches that were perched on nearby beds engaged in nonstop conversation about nothing at all.

After what seemed like hours of hoping that Hermione would still be fine by the time that Harry got there, he felt the bus slam on the brakes to come to a skidding stop, hopefully in front of his destination. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he opened one green eye to see the acne-covered conductor hovering over him. "Bromley 'Ospital, 'Arry."

Harry pulled himself up out of the bed, stretching a little bit...had he fallen asleep? "Err...thanks," he mumbled tiredly, nudging Stan out of his way so that he could walk to the door. Climbing off the bus and watching it disappear into the distance, he quickly dashed through the automatic glass doors into the hospital.

"Can I help you, young man?" A brunette receptionist that seemed rather irritable peered down over the rim of her glasses at Harry as he approached her desk.

"Ermm... yes, can you tell me where I might find Hermione Granger?"

"Your relation to her?"

Harry froze. He hadn't considered this; he wasn't expecting to have to be family to get in.

"Brother," came a voice from behind. Harry whirled around to see Hermione's father, also a Dr. Granger, standing directly behind him. They'd met once, a few years back, at Diagon Alley... it seemed a nice surprise to Harry that Mr. Granger still remembered who he was.

"And you are?"

"Dr. Robert Granger, I'm here to see my wife and daughter."

"Very well, room 221," the woman informed him with a rather snotty tone.

Harry turned to face Mr. Granger, following him down a hallway, following a sign that directed visitors towards the elevators. "Thanks," he said simply.

"No problem. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you, Harry."

"How is she?"

Mr. Granger shrugged. "They wouldn't tell me anything but that there had been an accident when they phoned."

Harry gazed up at the man... he could see where Hermione got her eyes, her father had the same ones, but other than that, he barely resembled her at all. He admired the father's composure towards the situation though; he was surprisingly calm for having just received word that both of his immediate family members were the lone survivors of an accident that had killed all others involved. The pair stood in silence as the elevator took them up to the second floor, with the annoying little bell informing them of their arrival on their desired floor, as Harry and Mr. Granger exited the elevator car and made their way down the hallway to a rather large room that contained two single beds, the closer to the door holding a small, heavier woman with light brown hair that was barely visible among all the wires and life support and bandages that surrounded her. A glance further into the room, and Harry's eyes fell on...

"Hermione!" Harry gasped, taking a few quick steps to arrive at her bedside, falling into a nearby floral-patterned armchair.

"Harry," the girl whispered back, forcing a half-smile. She looked horrible, like it was a miracle for her to even be awake. Her ankle was casted, her entire body looked to be covered in cuts and burns, her buck- toothed smile was missing one of its teeth. "I had a feeling you'd be here."

"Are you all right?" Harry whispered, reaching out to place his gently hand on top of hers, hearing Mr. Granger's teary whispers to his wife directly behind them.

"I suppose," Hermione replied, sounding slightly strained. "Listen, Harry, I think..."

"Shh, Hermione," Harry said softly, willing her to relax. He patted her hand lightly, grateful that she was still alive, still talking, still with memory in tact.

"No, Harry, he did it," Hermione continued. "I need you to tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley that he did it."

"Voldemort?" Harry asked, though the answer was obvious. Between the pain in his scar and the mystery surrounding the accident, there was no other solution.

Hermione gave a slight nod, shuddering a bit at the sound of the name. "Go tell them, Harry."

Harry gazed down at his friend, watching as she closed her eyes, and presumably fell asleep. Apparently she'd forced herself to stay awake just until Harry or someone arrived so that she could warn them that her accident wasn't exactly an accident, more like... a Death Eater, or perhaps Lord Voldemort himself wreaking havoc on London.

As soon as he was confident that she had dozed off, Harry made his way from the room, slipping past Mr. Granger, who was grasping his wife's lifeless hand, whispering to her, but receiving no response. It appeared as though Mrs. Granger had gone through a lot worse than Hermione... though she was completely covered in scrapes, cuts, and burns as well. The only major difference was that Hermione had been conscious and breathing on her own, Mrs. Granger hadn't been at all yet. Instinct told him that Mrs. Granger was not going to make a full recovery after this.

It seemed odd that the two would be in a Muggle hospital, though, especially under the circumstances... Hermione insisted that this had been the doing of Lord Voldemort, which was exactly what Harry was afraid of. But in that case, wouldn't she be at St. Mungo's? Or perhaps she'd already gotten treatment there, and was now awaiting a full recovery at a Muggle hospital. Her parents had insisted on going the Muggle route in fixing her teeth (which, Harry realized sadly, were going to need another summer of braces and a replacement tooth after this mishap), maybe they'd requested Muggle medical treatment.

That was one question with a possible answer, but more lingered: Had Hermione been specifically targeted? Was this a set-up to get Harry? Was Voldemort somewhere in London? Was there another attack being planned?

The questions rushed through Harry's head, as he anxiously walked through the hallways of the hospital, unsure of where he was going. Turning a corner, he found himself at a small lounge, with a few couches and a machine to make tea and coffee. Harry helped himself to a small Styrofoam cup of tea and collapsed on a couch to think. However, his thinking was quickly interrupted, by two voices at once.

"Harry Potter, what do you think you're DOING?" came one, all-too-familiar angry hiss.

"Oh my gosh, Daddy, LOOK! It's Harry Potter!" came the other girlish squeal...

Harry whipped his head around to see Mrs. Weasley, which was no surprise... and the most beautiful blonde girl he'd ever seen in his life smiling down on him...

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_Okay, might I point out that I've invented names for Mr. and Mrs. Granger, as none have been provided by J.K. herself, and I needed some for my own purpose. Anyway, who's the blonde talking to Harry, what's Mrs. Weasley going to do to Harry, __and what DID happen to Hermione, and will she and her mother be all right? Update coming hopefully soon, for now, review please!! I can't make anything any better unless you guys tell me what needs to be changed!! Especially: is this an all right length, or did I drag on? Please and thank you!_


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